


Control and Release

by luredin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bed-Wetting, Bottom Steve Rogers, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nightmares, POV Steve Rogers, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Sam Wilson, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Urination, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luredin/pseuds/luredin
Summary: Waking up seventy-years in “the future”, alone and cold, was bad enough. But having survived the Battle of New York, and everything that came after, is even worse. Needless to say, Steve is having difficulty coping with recent events. While he struggles to keep his past trauma from bleeding into the here and now, he attempts to create a ‘normal’ life with Sam. Most days he succeeds. It’s the nights that hurt the most.





	1. How It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> MIND THE TAGS.
> 
> CW includes: incontinence (urinary), nightmares, PTSD, minor violence (contained in nightmares/fashbacks), shame/guilt, unhealthy coping mechanisms (involving pee and sex!), and anxiety/depression with brief mentions of suicidal thoughts. Not all of these warnings will apply to every chapter but will be contained in the fic overall.
> 
> If none of this interests you or if it sounds in the slightest bit triggering, please do not read this fic.

The acrid smell of smoke fills Steve’s nostrils. He sees, in every direction he turns, nothing but chaos. People screaming. Debris flying. New York is burning, and he is frozen, in the center of it all. For one perilous second he cannot breathe. He is descending once again into the ice at a breakneck speed, and he’s helpless to stop it. He has no control. He closes his eyes but opens them in the next instant. Across the smoke and mayhem he locks onto Natasha’s familiar face there in the madness alongside him. He sucks in air and thinks, foolishly, that everything is going to be okay.

The Chitauri ship moves with deadly accuracy across his field of vision. Steve watches it, like a slow-motion stop-reel, as it careens into Nat’s center, practically slicing her body into two. Her neck snaps back at a sickening angle, and even at this distance, amid all the noise, Steve can hear her spine crack and break. The sound causes his stomach to clench and bile to rise in his throat. Some small part of Steve seems to know that this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen, that this isn’t really _real_ , but that doesn’t stop him from desperately trying not to retch onto the pavement while he screams into the encroaching blackness. 

He wakes gasping for air and covered in sweat. 

At first all Steve can hear is an endless wave of screams punctuated repeatedly by the sound of Natasha’s body breaking apart before his eyes. After a few seconds, he begins to hear his own heartbeat, strong and loud and pulsing rapidly through his veins. He wishes it would just stop. He wishes everything would just stop—that he could just crawl back into the blackness and die, too. Die again. But the voice won’t let him. The voice is whispering, softly, just there underneath his heartbeat, and he struggles to listen to it even as he wants to recoil away from it. The voice grows more demanding with each passing second, and he realizes with sudden clarity that he _knows_ it. 

_Sam_. 

Sam Wilson. He’s repeating the same words over and over again. _Steve Rogers_. _2014_. _Safe_. And he sounds honest. And the words begin to ground him. And Steve begins to feel the reality of the present moment press in upon his clammy skin. He can feel Sam’s hand, firm but gentle, resting against his bare stomach. He remembers falling asleep here, with Sam. He knows, instinctively, that he is safe, and that it’s okay to relax. The sounds of battle fade from his head to that of just a faint thrumming bass as he concentrates on Sam’s voice. 

Sam’s rubbing soothing circles on Steve’s belly, and the motion calms him, sends a peaceful jolt through his entire body. He’s safe, and warm, and loved here, and he’s beginning to feel okay. Better than okay. Sam is still murmuring words of comfort, and his long, strong fingers pressed against his skin feel good. Steve feels himself beginning to float away with the sensation of warmth spreading from Sam’s touch throughout his body from the inside out. 

Steve’s brain begins to register the warmth for what it really is a minute too late though. His eyes fly open in panic as he feels the unmistakable wetness pooling against his skin, dampening his boxers. _He’s peeing_. Oh my God, he’s actually _peeing_ himself in the bed. Sam’s bed. 

His first instinct is to fly out of the bed, while still going, as if that would make it any better. But his limbs are still heavy with nightmare-sleep and are uncoordinated. Sam hasn’t moved his hand from atop Steve’s stomach, and now his other hand wrestles with Steve’s frantic movements, keeping him pinned to the mattress. Steve doesn’t put up much of a fight. 

“Hey, Steve. Shhhh. It’s okay. It’s okay,” Sam repeats on an endless calming loop. 

But it’s _not_. Steve knows it’s not even remotely okay. He’s pisssing himself, in his underwear, in a bed that’s not his own, next to the man he just had sex with only hours before. He tries, unsuccessfully to clamp down on his muscles, to stop the flow of his bladder but it’s unrelenting, or unforgiving, and past the point of stopping. And what good is super-soldier serum if he can’t even stop himself from pissing mid-stream? 

Tears well up in Steve’s eyes, and he chokes back a whimper. “Sam. Sam, I can’t...” 

He tries. He really fucking tries. But something about the stress and horror of the nightmare and then of waking up safe and warm in Sam’s bed has flipped a switch in Steve’s brain. The accident feels like a blessed _relief_ , and Steve knows that on some subconscious level he doesn’t _want_ to stop. The tears slip from the corners of his eyes then. 

Sam doesn’t stop rubbing Steve’s stomach as he continues telling him to relax, that it’s okay. Urine is streaming down Steve’s thighs, wet and hot, and is pooling under his balls. His underwear is clinging to his skin. Every fucked-up, nauseating horror that was trapped in Steve’s sleeping mind feels like it’s flowing out of his body. He doesn’t even realize the moment he stops clenching every muscle he has, but instead relaxes and stutters in a calming breath. After what feels like an eternity but in reality is probably only another minute, he feels the steady stream coming to a close, slowing to a trickle, and he moans. Oh God, it’s shameful, he knows it is—but he moans because it feels so damn good. Peaceful. Calming. Release. It’s intimate and almost orgasmic, this feeling of crashing after an adrenaline spike and just letting go of any and all control. His dick twitches and a few lingering spurts add to the mess in his boxers. The tears stream quietly down his face. 

For the next few minutes there’s just silence, followed by the horrific guilt-ridden realization of what he’s just done. And then he starts babbling. “Sam. Oh God. Sam. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sam I..can’t...I didn’t...Sam...” 

“Shhhhh, Steve. It’s alright. You’re okay. It’s okay.” Sam’s voice is low and calm which somehow only makes Steve feel worse. 

“It’s not okay, Sam.” Steve can’t bring himself to turn his head and look at him. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know..” 

“You had a nightmare, Steve. That’s all. That’s what happened. You think you’re the first soldier this has happened to?” Sam asks with skillful measure. It’s his counselor voice. Steve hates it. Steve clings to it. 

“This has never happened before. Even when the nightmares were worse, every night, I never...” His voice trails off because he cannot finish the sentence. He cannot bring himself to say the words— _wet the bed_. Like a child. He shivers. His soaked underwear is rapidly cooling and the whole room smells like piss and sweat. “I’m sorry..I...” Steve moves to get out of the soiled bed. 

“Hey.” Sam tightens his fingers around Steve’s forearm. “Go take a shower. We’ll talk when you’re done. I promise it’s going to be okay.” 

Steve nods mutely, too exhausted, too embarrassed for any more words right now. 

He spends twenty minutes in the bathroom. He stands under the spray, eyes closed, letting the water wash away his shame. It doesn’t actually work. Even after the hot water has turned icy, he stays. The cold water hits his taut body like a volley of tiny knife pricks all over, but he doesn’t move. The pain is fleeting and not enough. 

The knock on door startles him from his quiet self-flagellation. 

“Hey, man. You can’t stay in there all night.” Sam’s voice holds no incrimination, no inflection. An even keel. That’s Sam. The man has infinite stores of patience. Steve doesn’t know how. Even after everything that Steve has put him through these past several months. Even after Shield, and Hydra, and...Bucky, Sam’s eyes have remained kind, his words always a soft-soothing balm to Steve’s over-wrought mind. 

Steve sighs and shuts off the water. His mind is still racing in a thousand different directions as he towels listlessly at his wet hair. He’s feeling less embarrassed than before he showered. Maybe, he thinks, Sam does understand. There certainly wasn’t any judgement in Sam’s warm brown eyes when he held tight to Steve in the bed, telling him it was alright. But still. This has never happened to Steve before tonight, and he doesn’t understand why it happened _now_. If he doesn’t understand, how can he expect Sam to possibly understand? 

The bedroom is empty when he returns, all clean and dry in new boxers and a white t-shirt. The sheets on the bed have been changed and the odor is gone—as if none of it ever happened. 

It’s already just shy of dawn, and he finds Sam in the living room, stretched lazily across the sofa. The TV is on but the volume is turned down, and the early morning news is just a whisper below the sound of the washing machine in the other room. Sam sits up when Steve comes into the room and swings his legs down to make room. Steve sits. Neither of them say a word. 

Steve rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. He feels Sam scooting closer and then a hand clasped around the back of his neck, soft fingers stroking damp skin. Sam continues to stroke moving his fingers down Steve’s spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. He runs circles across Steve’s back and gently kneads his shoulders. The touch is meant to be reassuring, and it works. Steve lets his shoulders relax from their hunched posture as he melts into Sam’s touch. He thinks maybe he should fight it. He doesn’t deserve it. But it feels so fucking good. He brings his hands down from his face and leans into Sam, letting himself be coddled, shamelessly needing the touch. As far as things he should feel shameful about go, this ranks pretty damn low on the list tonight. This morning. _Shit_. 

“You ready to talk about it,” Sam asks, a tentative coaxing. He knows Steve will talk when he’s ready to talk, because he always does. He’s never kept any secrets from Sam. Well, almost never. 

Steve huffs and chuckles around a breath. “I don’t know where to start.” He finally turns his head and looks Sam in the eye for the first time since getting out of bed. Sam—who cleaned up his mess. Is _always_ cleaning up his messes it seems. Literally. Figuratively. He doesn’t deserve this man. _Fuck_. “The mattress...” Steve asks because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Sam laughs at that, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Is fine. Totally fine.” He takes a deep breathe and moves his hand to rest on Steve’s waist. “Did you think I was blowing smoke when I said you aren’t the first soldier this has happened to? Shit, I was so messed up when I got back, one of the first things I had to do was put a mattress protector down on my bed. Saved me so much grief though.” 

Steve looks away, considers this. The shared confidence doesn’t help the way he knows Sam means it to. All he can think is that the mattress protector is _still_ there. Does that mean it’s still going on? Does Sam still need it? Or worse, did he think that _Steve_ might need it, once he started spending the nights here? His pulse quickens at that idea—the notion that Sam knew how truly broken Steve is before Steve even knew. 

“Hey.” Sam tightens his grip on Steve’s waist, digging his fingers into his hip forcefully but not enough to hurt. Just enough to bring Steve’s focus back to the present. “You’re spinning out on me, babe. Deep breaths.” Steve tries to comply. Tries to focus. “Why don’t you tell me about the dream,” Sam says. 

Steve focuses on that. He was dreaming about New York. Something that happened years ago. Why did it suddenly feel like only yesterday? So much has happened since then, since his world was cracked open and aliens fell from the sky and any delusions he had about holding on to his past life were sucked violently into the stratosphere. But his dream was wrong. Things didn’t go down like that. Did they? Oh God, what if they did? What if he forgot? He gasps. “Nat!” 

Sam frowns. “Natasha? What about her?” 

Steve can’t seem to string the right words together to ask the question. What is dream? What is memory? “Is she...did she...?” 

“She’s fine. She’s ok.” Sam probably isn’t entirely sure what Steve is asking, but this sounds like the safest answer. 

“She’s alive?” Steve watches Sam’s eyebrows raise and his frown deepen. “She survived the battle of New York, right?” 

“Yeah, Steve, yeah.” Sam let’s out the breath he was holding. “She’s fine, baby. She’s in Romania, chasing down some leads...” 

_...on The Winter Soldier_ is the unspoken end to that sentence. They have a rule, although they’ve never really discussed it as such. It’s just something they instinctively know not to do. In private moments, in moments like this when they are naked and vulnerable with each other, they don’t bring up Bucky. In the light of day, when it’s work, when there is a strategy, when Bucky is the goddamn _mission_ , then it’s okay. They can say his name without actually saying anything at all. But never like this, and never with any relevance. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says knowing it’s not what Sam wants to hear but having nothing else to offer. “I don’t know why I was dreaming of New York. It was so long ago.” 

“So was World War II,” Sam says, not insensitively. “But war is war, Steve. Some things never go away. Some days it feels like only last week. Those are the bad days. But you’ve had a hell of a lot of good days since New York, and that’s what you need to focus on. That’s what you remember when the bad moments hit.” 

Steve knows that he’s right. He hasn’t thought about New York in weeks, months. What made the nightmares return tonight he has no idea. But there have been a lot of good days where he didn’t think about death and destruction and the Tesseract and his entire world burning down in the past year. He’s been managing. He’s been coping. Distance and time and Sam’s support have helped immensely. Of course, he’s also been more than a bit preoccupied by that _other_ unmitigated disaster in his recent life—the trauma of learning that the person he loved most in the world had been turned into a mindless killing asassin, and that it was his own fault. How is he even supposed to begin dealing with that? Maybe that’s the whole damn problem. 

Steve’s aware that he’s been quiet for too long. Sam is watching him with unguarded concern. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now,” he begins. “But it needs to be said. What happened tonight happened. It doesn’t have to become a thing unless we let it. So—we’re going to deal with it the way we deal with all the other fucked-up shit we deal with: together.” He presses a chaste kiss to Steve’s temple. “Do you hear me?” 

Steve nods and slips his arm around Sam in thanks. They fold into each other and stay that way, entwined, for several long moments. Steve is exhausted. He wants to close his eyes and stay the way he is now, safe in Sam’s arms, forever. God, it feels so nice, letting Sam take care of him. It’s not the same as it was with Bucky. This is gentler, sweeter than it ever was when he was a punk kid and Bucky was his hero, his everything. Sam is his equal, his partner, his friend. Sam knows how to quiet the raging torrent in his head with just a look and firm caress. 

“It’s still early,” Sam says, pressing another kiss against his skin. He’s cupping Steve’s jaw, thumb stroking across his chin. He gently tilts Steve’s head in his direction until their lips are just a hair’s breadth apart, and then they meet in the middle. When they kiss it’s a soft press of lips that deepens into something more, something hungry. Steve is always hungry for Sam’s kisses. Skillful, deliberate, they have the power to turn Steve inside out and make him feel like he’s floating, weightless, cared for, and needed. Sam wants Steve to know that he’s needed, and that he is enough. At least, that’s how he always makes Steve feel. It’s a heady, good feeling that he chases with fervor. Soft lips, a swipe of tongue, a trace of teeth. _Good_. “Do you want to go back to bed?” Sam whispers against his cheek. 

Steve knows what he’s really asking, and he wants to very, very much. But at the sound of the word ‘bed’ his entire body stiffens. Sam reacts immediately by wrapping his arms tightly around him and shushing him into stillness. Steve knows it’s foolish. He’s wide awake now, and he knows that a repeat of what happened earlier is highly unlikely—even if he and Sam did fall back to sleep. But the memory is still too fresh and painful in his mind. Not the memory of his nightmare. And not even the memory of him wetting the bed. It’s the memory of how he _felt_ when he’d done it that scares him the most. That feeling of safety and release, the relief he felt letting go—when everything bad seemed to melt away into the nothingness and there was only warm, wet blessed comfort. How could he possibly explain that to Sam in any way that made rational, sane sense? It didn’t. He couldn’t. He felt dirty and confused and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever be ready to go back to that bed again. 

“Why don’t we just lie here on the sofa for awhile?” Sam says. Steve lets himself be moved and repositioned so that they are lying side by side, chests touching. Sam reaches behind them and pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps them up, safe and cocoon-like. Steve breathes in Sam’s scent, familiar and comforting, and he holds on tighter than he probably should. Sam doesn’t say anything. He just presses gentle kisses into Steve’s hair and rubs his back and sighs against him. Steve shivers and melts into him. He doesn’t deserve this man, he knows, but like hell he’s ever going to let him go. 

Steve whispers, “Thank you, Sam.” And then he closes his eyes and waits for the sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. The current plan for this story is an additional two chapters, but that may change.
> 
> If you feel additional tags or CW warnings should be added, please let me know.
> 
> Comments are love. Constructive criticism is welcome; fetish or kinkshaming is not.


	2. Fragile Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve returns from a trip. 
> 
> Sam welcomes him 'home'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags and rating have been updated to reflect sexual content. The overall warnings have not changed; there are no specific TWs for this chapter, though.
> 
> Shout-out: So much love to my darling Deir who held my hand while I wrote most of this chapter over the last few weeks. She's my number one cheerleader, even if most of this fic isn't her cuppa kink. I've never laughed more writing smut than I did with you and this and autocorrect. Thanks for playing porny mad libs with me and for letting me know that I should definitely tag this chapter 'light dimsum'.

The smooth tones of Smokey Robinson drift through the open window, greeting Steve as he pauses at the front door. He hesitates before letting himself in, taking in the mellow Motown vibe and the smell of fried chicken wafting in the air. The combination has become a familiar one over the past several weeks, one that whispers of _home_ and a sense of belonging that he hasn’t felt since his childhood in Brooklyn. If someone had told him right after waking from the ice, cold and alone, that he would someday find peace in this tiny one bedroom on the outskirts of DC, he wouldn’t have believed them. But then he met Sam.

He smiles to himself remembering the warm summer morning when he and Sam first met. _On your left_. He wasn’t looking for anything but friendship, and in all honesty, he wasn’t even looking for that much. He was good with Nat and Tony, with having nothing but ‘work’ friends and copious amounts of alone time. He wanted to have time alone in order to process this modern world and all of the things he’d missed in the past seven decades without interference or anyone else’s noise. But, as it turned out, what he wanted and what he actually needed were two entirely different things. 

Somehow, between that first tentative visit to the VA and waking up weeks later in the hospital, broken and battered, Sam Wilson had crawled under Steve’s skin and had taken up residence there, like a weight that couldn’t be dislodged. Steve didn’t even try. He was tired, and he hurt _everywhere_ , and if he never had to fight another fight again, he was perfectly alright with that. Sam’s presence beside his bed was like being shrouded in a wool blanket, lightweight but warm and comfortingly _there_. Steve’s not ashamed to say he clung, like a drowning man on a lifeboat, to Sam after the fall from the helicarrier—after Hydra brooke him, yet again. After they used James Buchanan Barnes to do it. 

Steve had woken up hollow inside, but slowly, slowly Sam has begun to fill him up. 

He slips into the house and sets his bags down in the entryway. Looking through the doorway into the kitchen he can see Sam softly swaying to the music and humming along as he cooks. Steve smiles. Sam hasn’t heard him come in yet, so he takes the moment to hover in the shadow of the doorway and watch. He’s barefoot, wearing grey sweats and a tight black t-shirt that probably belongs to Steve but looks less ridiculous on Sam. He moves on the balls of his feet when he rocks from side to side and is somehow more graceful than Steve’s ever managed to be, before or after the serum. They’re the movements of a man who’s comfortable in his body, something Steve’s never experienced, he realizes with an envious pang. 

Sam moves to the refrigerator and Steve continues to watch the rhythmic movement of his hips as he opens the door and bends at the waist to reach inside. His t-shirt rides up his back. His sweats hang low, inviting Steve to admire the sinful curve of his ass. When he straightens up again, holding two beer bottles in one hand, his shirt stays bunched above his waist. Steve itches to slide his fingers underneath the hem or maybe below the waistband of his pants. Anywhere really. They’ve only been apart a week but it feels like forever since Steve has gotten a chance to touch and caress, to lick and to pet Sam’s body the way he knows he loves. The way they both love. And Christ, he’s getting hard just thinking about it. 

Sam fishes an opener from the drawer and pops both bottle caps. As he sets the drinks down on the counter and moves back to the stove, he says, all nonchalant, biting back a shit-eating grin that Steve can see quirking at the corner of his mouth, “You gonna stand there all day ogling my ass, grandpa, or are you gonna get in here and say hello properly?” 

Steve grins and kicks his shoes off into the hallway. “You’ve been spending too much time with Romanoff.” He slides in behind Sam, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his lips to the inviting column of his neck. “Hey, baby,” he whispers around his kisses. 

Sam groans and leans into him, tipping his head back against Steve’s shoulder, giving him even more access to the velvety smoothness of his neck. Steve licks a playful swipe over his Adam’s apple, and Sam shivers. “Fuck, Steve. How many months you been gone?” 

“Seven days.” He smirks as Sam twists a bit in his arms and captures his mouth with his. They kiss messy and open mouthed and laugh at the awkward but just right feeling of teeth clashing, noses bumping. _Hello_. _I missed you_. _I’m home_. Some small part of Steve thinks he should be overwhelmed by the intensity of the comfortable ease with which he and Sam have worked themselves into each other’s lives. But he isn’t. It hasn’t felt like work at all. 

“Seven days and six _nights_ ,” Sam says when they come up for air. 

“Mmmhmmm. So tell me, Master Chef,” Steve begins, glancing at the hiss of smoke coming from the waffle maker next to the stove. “Is this Wilson’s famous fried chicken and eggnog waffles you seem to be burning here?” 

“Shit. Fuck!” Sam yelps and pushes Steve backwards as he dives for the lid. “You! Out of my kitchen! You’ve been home five minutes and already you’ve got me ruining dinner.” 

Steve throws up his hands in mock-affrontery. “Don’t have to tell me when I’m not wanted!” Sam ignores him in favor of salvaging their dinner, so Steve grabs his beer and backs carefully into the living room. “You just yell if you need help. Or a fire extinguisher.” 

“Bite me, Captain Wiseass.” 

Steve chuckles and settles into the sofa, sipping his beer. The trip to New York was more draining than he wants to admit. Pepper doted and fussed over him. Tony squawked and preened and peacocked around Stark Tower like nothing had changed. But his dark eyes followed Steve when he thought he couldn’t see him, and the concern they held was enough that Steve didn’t want to meet them. One or two uncomfortable silences, and then finally on the last night of his visit Tony manned-up and broached the subject that neither one of them wanted to address. The elephant in the room. 

Steve hadn’t wanted to turn Tony down again, but it was different this time. When Tony had first come to the hospital, Steve had still been disoriented and confused, and it had been easy to say no then. Tony hadn’t argued with him. He’d just nodded and left, but not before Steve’d heard him have a whispered, heated exchange with Sam in the hallway. 

This time, when Tony asked the question, Steve was having trouble looking him in the face, not out of confusion or pain, but out of guilt. Steve had read the file on The Winter Soldier. He wasn’t stupid. He’d put two and two together and let the ground drop away from his feet briefly before he regained his composure. It hadn’t taken him long at all to make his decision. Nat had agreed with him, for once. 

But the trouble with secrets is, when left unattended, they tend to fester and grow, trying to reach the light of day by attempting to strangle you from the inside out. 

Sam’s touch on the back of his neck startles Steve. The playlist has changed over, and the room is filled with the smooth, complex sounds of a jazz song that Steve doesn’t recognize. When he tilts his head back to look up at Sam, Sam raises his eyebrows and silently asks the question, _are you ok_? Steve nods and looks down at the bottle he’s holding loosely in his lap. Condensation drips down the side, in between his fingers. “Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Adelaide Hall performing at the Apollo?” 

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, clearly impressed. “Hell, no. That had to have been...you must’ve been...what?” 

“Sixteen,” Steve nods. “It was 1934. Adelaide Hall in _Chocolate Soldiers_.” He smiles at the memory. His first experience of jazz, and broadway. Exotic and thrilling. 

Sam snorts. “ ‘Chocolate Soldiers’, huh? How did you even...?” 

“Bucky.” His name slips past Steve lips before he can stop it. He feels the familiar whoosh and then the tightening in his stomach, but the word, the name, is already out there, so he keeps going before either of them can acknowledge it. “He...he knew people...always knew people y’know? From hanging out down at the docks before he even worked there. And everyone loved him. It was...he made things easier.” Steve swallows, feeling like he’s saying too much when he really isn’t saying anything at all. “We didn’t have money for things like that, for going into the city and seeing a show. So we snuck in through the back of the theater and somebody vouched for Bucky and that was it. Watched from a side aisle.” 

What he doesn’t tell Sam is that it was one of the best nights of his life. No girls hanging all over Bucky. Just the two of them. It was shadowy and intimate and somewhat titillating. It wasn’t like people from their neighborhood were flocking to Harlem on a regular basis, to see the sights, so to speak. But Bucky made things like that okay. Bucky uncomplicated things and made the world seem bigger and brighter than it actually was. 

“Christ, we were just kids.” Steve tries to shake the memory loose from his head. Remembering the past isn’t going to change the future. Sam bends down and kisses the top of his head. The present is what he needs to focus on now. 

Sam gently squeezes his shoulder and tells him that dinner is ready. “C’mon,” he says softly as he walks back to the kitchen. “I got another real authentic taste of Harlem waiting for you in here.” 

——— 

“So,” Sam says around a mouthful of chicken. “How is Mr. High and Mighty?” 

“You know Tony. Same as always.” 

“I don’t really, but I’ll take your word for it.” 

Steve wonders about that conversation—the one in the hospital between Sam and Tony. The one he couldn’t quite overhear. He’s never asked, and Sam has never volunteered. And Tony only seems to acknowledge Sam’s existence when Pepper is in the room, maybe because she encourages Steve to talk about his personal life in a way Tony can’t. Tony only ever manages to dance around the edges, like if he comes too close to anything that actually matters, he might get burned. Steve supposes they are all like that, in a way. They protect the fragile parts of themselves, even from each other. Sometimes friends are the ones who can do the most damage. 

“Did he ask you to move back to New York again?” 

Steve nods. “Pass me the strawberry butter.” 

Sam is not deterred. “And?” 

“Pass me the strawberry butter, _please_?” Steve replies like the little shit he still feels like sometimes. Sam rolls his eyes as he reaches across the table. Steve dips his knife into the jar and pauses before he swipes a large swath across his waffle. “I told him no. Told him I’m still good here.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything right away. The silence isn’t uncomfortable but Steve knows that Sam has more to say on the subject. He should probably tell him that Tony has an entire floor ready and waiting for him in Stark Tower, and that there’d be plenty of room for Sam, too, if Steve only asked. 

“What did you tell him about us?” Sam asks, too quiet for Steve’s comfort. He feels a sharp stabbing pain in his rib cage, near his heart. When he doesn’t answer Sam pushes his plate away from himself and leans back in his chair. He folds his arms across his chest and looks directly at Steve. 

Steve knows this look. It’s the posture Sam adopts when he doesn’t agree with Steve but he’s not going to argue either. Sometimes Steve wishes he would raise his voice, yell, like Bucky used to do. But Sam doesn’t. That’s just not the way he’s built. 

When the silence stretches too thin between them Sam sighs and passes a hand over his face. “You know I’d go with you, right? If that’s what you wanted.” 

“And you know that’s not what I want. We’re good here, you and I, aren’t we?” 

“I guess I just don’t understand sometimes. You act like Tony’s your friend, but you won’t...explain...you don’t...Shit, I don’t know what you tell him when you’re together, Steve, but it just seems like the man wants to go to a hell of a lot of trouble to keep you safe, and you don’t seem to care.” 

Steve fidgets with his fork sitting on the table and doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to move to New York, even if it would be the logical next step, the safe thing to do. How is he supposed to tell Sam that he keeps their relationship a secret when he’s there? That no one knows the true nature of their life together aside from Natasha? People may suspect, and eyebrows may raise, but no one asks him questions directly, and he won’t say a word because he needs to protect Sam. He needs to protect _this_. 

He doesn’t know how Tony is going to react when he finds out the truth Steve’s decided to keep from him but he has a pretty good idea, and he doesn’t want Sam anywhere nearby when everything goes to shit. He knows it will; it’s only a matter of time. Nothing stays secret forever. But he won’t put Sam in the middle of them with a giant bullseye on his back, a sign that says ‘this is the thing Steve cares most about right now’. _This is how you hurt him_. He knows Tony wouldn’t hesitate. But he can’t explain this to Sam without divulging the one secret he’s ever kept from him. He feels nauseous just thinking about it. 

“Tony and I are...complicated,” is what he ends up saying. 

Sam gives him a look that says he’s going to let Steve get away with that answer for now. He stands up abruptly and circles the table. He lets his fingers ghost along Steve’s jaw as he tips his head up and bends down in one swift motion, pressing a kiss to Steve’s forehead. His lips hover near his temple as he whispers, “The answer is _yes_ by the way. Yes, we’re good here.” 

And just like that, Steve warms at his touch and feels his anxiety slip to the background, replaced with a quickly forming desire to be bathed in nothing but the blanketing calm of Sam’s caresses. 

———

Sam insisted that Steve shower and relax while he cleaned up from dinner. Steve didn’t protest too loudly. Sam’s shower is small and cramped but Steve loves it. A week of showering at Stark Tower, in wide open spaces full of sleek chrome and teakwood was nice, but isn’t really what Steve’s about. He prefers it here with the green ceramic tile, and the shower head that’s the absolute wrong height for him, and the fact that the hot water is not limitless. It’s a finite comfort, being here. He likes existing between boundaries, knowing where things end and where they begin again is soothing. Stark Tower is full of infinite possibilities that leave Steve more agitated than anything else. He breathes deeply, inhaling steam, exhaling the doubts he was harboring deep down about saying no to Tony. 

This is home, he reminds himself. 

“Okay if I join you?” Sam asks from the doorway. The answer is always yes, but Sam still asks every time because he understands the importance of boundaries and the need for routine more than anyone else in Steve’s life, except for maybe Natasha. But just because Nat understands a boundary doesn’t mean she isn’t going to push it as far as it will go. Sam never pushes. He tests boundaries by stepping back and allowing Steve to be the one to decide when to push. Sam is just the pull. He thinks it’s been like that from their first meeting. Sam watches and waits. Steve always comes to him. 

He steps into the shower with practiced ease and fits himself against Steve, chest to chest. Without saying anything he ducks his head under the spray and begins to mouth at the water droplets sprinkled across Steve’s shoulder and down his collarbone. Tension uncoils from within Steve’s body starting at his core and unraveling the length of him as he leans into Sam, wrapping his arms around him tightly. His lips graze Sam’s ear as he whispers, voice rough around the edges, “I missed you.” 

Sam groans a little bit into the side of his neck, where he’s trailing his lips and tongue in lazy, languid patterns. Steve tilts his head to give him even more skin to work with. Sam’s nose bumps against his jaw and he breathes deeply. “Missed you, too.” When he rolls his hips a second later, Steve can feel his mischievous grin against his skin. 

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, Wilson.” 

“Oh, I intend. I intend very much, Rogers.” He slips Steve’s earlobe between his lips and bites down ever so lightly. 

“Here?” Steve manages to choke out as a thousand tiny shivers run through his body. 

Sam pauses and pulls back to look Steve in the eye. “Mmmm bed. Okay?” 

Steve nods and tries to keep the hesitation he feels from showing in his eyes. The truth is, he hasn’t been back in Sam’s bed since the nightmare incident, over a week ago. For the first couple of nights after it happened, Steve had slept fitfully at his empty apartment full of cold memories. They didn’t discuss it, because Sam never pushes, but they were getting close to the point of needing to address the situation when Tony had called. 

Steve left for New York the next day. 

He wasn’t running away, he kept trying to tell himself. Not consciously at any rate. A little time and distance has seemed to make the memory less palpable though, and Steve knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s safe here. He’s safe in Sam’s arms, with his steady hands and soft lips and his deepening arousal sparking the slick space between their bodies. He isn’t sure how he even managed to stay away for so long. Why did he think he needed to avoid this? Because right now Steve feels like his entire world has been condensed into a single flame of wet heat, and he wants to let go and to be filled up by it and to feel nothing but Sam engulfing all of his senses. He realizes, with sudden clarity, that he doesn’t just want Sam, he _needs_ Sam, needs him in a way he can’t consciously explain but he feels deep in his bones all the same. 

Steve seeks out Sam’s mouth with his own and kisses him, breathless and full of his longing to be burned by the fire. 

“Go,” Sam says, wrenching them apart and giving Steve a small shove. “I’ll be right behind you.” 

Steve makes a noise of protest at the loss of contact between them but he lets himself be manhandled out of the shower. By the time Sam follows him into the bedroom, Steve has already propped himself up in bed, sheets rumpled around him, damp hair resting against the headboard. Sam moves to the edge of the bed, unhurried and purposeful, and smiles down at Steve as Steve raises his hand to toy with the edge of the towel wrapped around Sam’s waist.

Steve can’t help the intensity of his stare, because God, Sam is so beautiful like this. His skin is glistening, dark, inviting touch. Steve rakes his eyes over his body, eager to feel and hungry to taste. Sam leans down, hands propped on the mattress, bracketing Steve’s hips, and kisses him. Steve meets him halfway. He always meets him half way. Give and take—it’s what they do, and it’s growing rather familiar. 

In moments of self-doubt, Steve hopes that he gives Sam as much as he gets in return. He thinks he does. He prays he does, because Sam is so, so good to him. He’s stating to wonder how he survived in this century before meeting him. 

Steve’s hands roam, one slipping to the back of Sam’s neck to cradle him as they continue to kiss. His other hand glides down his chest, until his fingers wrap around Sam’s waist, thumb rubbing lightly against his hip, fingers dipping beneath the edge of the towel. Sam inches closer to the bed and lets out a quiet moan, and Steve takes that as his cue to tug the bath towel away. Neither of them seem to notice as it falls to the floor. Sam doesn’t waste any time crawling onto Steve’s lap. 

They take a moment to settle into each other, foreheads and noses pressed together, breathing slowly beginning to sync. Sam closes his eyes and holds Steve’s face in his hands. Steve melts into his touch, wanting nothing more than to wrap himself up in this moment and float away secure in the knowledge that Sam will keep him safe. Sam will lead him home. 

“What do you want?” Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, and Steve sighs. 

“I want you.” 

Sam kisses the other side of his mouth, and rolls his hips against Steve’s. “That much I figured out on my own.” He continues to rock his hips, and Steve joins in the motion. They stay that way for awhile, gentle movement, push-pull, give and take, kissing and touching tenderly. It’s not all that different than how they normally are with each other in bed, but for some reason it feels weightier and more poignant tonight. Steve feels as light as a feather and as heavy as a stone all at once. 

“How do you want me?” Sam whispers along his jawline. “Tell me.” 

“I need—“ Steve falters. The words won’t come. He leans back so that he can look into Sam’s eyes, dark, with desire pooling. “I need—“ 

“Tell me.” 

“I need you.” Steve buries his face in Sam’s shoulder and shivers. He takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself. “I just need _you_. Inside me. Please, just, Sam, I need to feel you. I don’t even care if I come—I just need you. Slow, slow and can you—I want to be able to see you and—“ He knows he’s babbling and probably not making any sense. 

“Yeah, ok, we can do that, babe.” Sam holds him for a few more seconds before he starts to slide off of his lap. Steve doesn’t want to let go but he allows Sam to nudge him back towards the bed. “Lie back for me,” Sam instructs, and Steve obeys. “I got you.” 

Steve helps arrange the pillows behind and underneath him and watches as Sam grabs a few necessities from the nightstand drawer. He can already feel himself beginning to drift, his mind beginning to empty in anticipation of what’s to come, and he doesn’t fight the feeling. Sam hovers above him, and Steve struggles to focus. Sam kisses him gently but deliberately, with authority. Steve chases his mouth as Sam moves away, to lick and suck a trail from his chest to his abs, and Steve revels in this feeling of being wanted. Of belonging to Sam. Of being _claimed_ by him. 

Steve _needs_. He needs so much. “Sam...Sam—“ He moans his name around each playful swipe of a nipple. 

His mouth, oh my God Sam’s mouth. 

“I’m right here, baby. I got you,” Sam replies even though Steve didn’t ask an actual question. His breath is hot and heavy as he inches closer to Steve’s cock, not even trying to disguise his intentions for a moment. When he slips Steve’s head between his lips, Steve arches his back and fists the bedsheets. A tiny voice, way in the back of his head, one that hasn’t yet been completely silenced by wave after wave of pure bliss, tells Steve that he should probably be doing more than just lying here writhing underneath Sam’s talented mouth and hands. He should be doing more—active participant and all— 

“No.” Sam pulls off of him the moment he feels Steve beginning to move towards sitting up, towards reaching down for him. Sam presses a hand firmly to Steve’s chest and forces him to make eye contact. “I know exactly what’s going through that head of yours right now, and so I’m only going to say this once.” 

Steve gasps audibly. His dick springs to attention, leaking a little at the commanding tone of Sam’s voice. 

“You are going to lie back, and you are going to take what I give you. Because it’s going to be exactly what you asked for. I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby, and you don’t gotta do a thing, okay?” 

Steve struggles to focus on what Sam’s saying, but he knows his eyes are beginning to glaze over and he wants desperately just to sink into the bed. 

“Hey.” 

His eyes snap open and meet Sam’s, gentle, kind, concerned ones. 

“We good, babe? I need you to tell me with your words before you go all fuzzy on me.” 

Steve nods. “Yeah...yes...fuck, I need you inside me, Sam.” 

Sam takes his words as all the confirmation he needs and kisses him briefly before returning to his position nestled between Steve’s strong thighs. He taps his fingers against one, wordlessly instructing Steve to move. Steve draws his legs up, feet planted firmly against the mattress, and Sam turns his head and kisses the corner of his knee. He continues in a path down Steve’s thigh til he meets hip, and moves to suck wet and messy marks of ownership across every inch of Steve’s most sensitive, private places. 

Steve whimpers but he doesn’t fight the intoxicating feel of Sam reverently worshiping his cock and his balls and every bit of skin he can reach with his tongue and his deliciously full lips. Steve can’t get drunk with alcohol anymore. But this. _This_. 

Sam works him open deftly, surely, with practiced ease, while he continues to lick and suck until Steve is breathless and certain he can’t possibly take Sam’s mouth any longer. His voice is hoarse but he manages to get out a “ready, please” and hopes it’s enough. Sam moans and leans back, letting cool air wash into the space he vacates. Steve hears him slicking himself up. The throaty noises he makes as he strokes himself for good measure make Steve smile. 

He knows he’s in some far off place that’s already too good, that on any other day would be more than enough. But then Sam begins to push inside of him, achingly slow and hard and perfect, and Steve can’t hold back the moan of pure pleasure and need that escapes him. He opens his eyes and locks onto Sam’s. He’s staring down at Steve with such a look of lust and longing and care and perfect trust that Steve thinks he’s going to come right there and then, with Sam not even halfway inside of him and no one touching him. 

“My God, you’re so beautiful like this,” Steve whispers up to Sam. “So, so good to me.” 

“Because you deserve it,” Sam replies, sinking deeper inside of him. Once he’s buried completely, Steve wraps his legs around him, holding him there. Neither of them move for what feels like an eternity. 

And this is exactly what Steve had been craving all night. Feeling Sam, every inch of Sam, deep inside of him. Feeling impossibly, wonderfully full of nothing but Sam. The smell of him, rich and dark and bittersweet, drifting in their sheets, mixing with the lingering scent of Sam’s sandalwood soap on his skin, enveloping him. 

Steve breathes deeply, losing more of himself to blissful surrender as each second goes by with their bodies locked in tight embrace. He swears he can feel every millimeter of Sam inside of him—every ridge and vein—hot and hard and so fucking good. Sam’s dick pulses with need and Steve reacts instinctively by clenching down and arching his back. 

“Fuuuuuuuckkk.” Sam practically whines. “Steve...I gotta—“ He doesn’t finish. He just begins to move. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly he pulls back some and then thrusts in again. 

Steve curls his toes and bites his bottom lip and wants to cry because each tantalizing slow movement Sam makes feels so amazing his brain is barely able to process it. He’s only half aware of his fingers digging into Sam’s shoulders, of the upward cant of his hips, and of the non-sense sounds slipping past his lips. 

“You feel so good, baby,” Sam says, echoing his own thoughts. Or the thoughts he’d be having if he could think at all anymore. 

“Tell me,” Steve practically begs. “Tell me how it feels.” 

“Fuck,” Sam gasps, trying to set an unwavering pace. “So tight, so hot. So needy, that right babe? I can feel how much you need me. How you take what I give you. How you open up for me.” He moans into a particularly slow drag of his cock, almost slipping out completely before steadily pushing back in. Steve rises up to meet him and bites back a yell as the angle brings Sam directly into contact with his prostate. His entire body trembles with the need for release. 

“That’s it,” Sam says knowing exactly what he’s just done. “You’re gonna beg me for it, now, aren’t you, sweetheart? Right there.” Sam thrusts against his prostate again and Steve loses all sense of time and place. There’s just white noise and an ache he didn’t know he had deep inside being soothed and filled by Sam. He opens his mouth to respond but he’s forgotten the words he’s supposed to say. That’s alright though. Sam’s got him. He’s safe. 

“I’m not going to last much longer.” Sam’s voice is distant and far away. “I need you to touch yourself. I want you to come for me.” 

Steve registers the words as some kind of command but he’s not entirely sure he should follow it. He doesn’t need to come. Maybe he will. He probably will. But it’s not important. He said so, remember? He just needs to keep Sam inside of him. Needs to keep him and to not lose him...this...what? 

“I said, it’s okay. You’re allowed to come, Steve. I want you to.” 

Did Steve say all that out loud? He didn’t mean to. He...oh. _Oh_. Sam’s body shifts over him as he props himself up with one arm, losing his steady rhythm for a few moments while he uses his free hand to reach between their bodies to stroke Steve. 

“You’re gonna feel so good. Come for me, baby,” Sam says almost too quiet for Steve to hear, and that’s all it takes. One more twist of Sam’s wrist and every muscle in Steve’s body tightens and goes rigid beneath him. He cries out when he comes, feeling himself tighten around Sam with every spasm of his release. Sam drops down on his forearms and begins moving again—a faster, hungrier rhythm than before—and within another minute, he comes, too, like a white-hot fire spreading through Steve. 

Steve’s legs drop to the bed, and Sam drops onto him, and there is only the sound of their ragged breathing as Steve floats, floats away. 

He registers when Sam’s softening cock slips out of him, and he thinks he must whimper, because Sam is petting him with long sure strokes across his torso, and running fingers through his hair. Steve clings to his warm body, nuzzles into the side of his neck, and begins to breath slow and steady. 

“There you are.” Sam laughs. “You coming back to me, babe?” 

Steve doesn’t answer. He just turns them both onto their sides and buries himself even closer to Sam’s body, all tangled limbs and sticky wetness. 

“You gotta let me clean us up.” 

“In a minute. Stay. This.” Steve mumbles incoherently. 

Sam laughs some more and pulls back just far enough to brush his lips against Steve’s. They kiss. There’s no heat behind it. Just tenderness and fondness and a sweetness that fills Steve up and holds him down and lets him be. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispers when they break apart. 

“Did you just thank me for sex, Rogers?” Sam sounds utterly offended. Steve knows he’s not. 

“No, not sex.” Steve means that this wasn’t just sex for him. And he’s sure it wasn’t just sex for Sam, but he has no clue how to articulate that thought. He’s not thanking Sam for sex. He’s thanking him for _everything else_. He tries to mumble through all of that out loud but gives up halfway through. 

“Shhhh,” Sam shushes him. “I understand. I got you.” 

“Yeah, you do.” Steve replies sleepily as he lets himself drift, drift away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Melba Wilson’s](https://www.melbasrestaurant.com) Famous Fried Chicken and Eggnog Waffles is a real award-winning thing which I shamelessly borrowed.
> 
> [Adelaide Hall](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adelaide_Hall) did indeed perform at Harlem’s Apollo Theater in 1934. Whether Bucky and Steve were really cool enough to be there I leave up to your imagination *coughcough*.
> 
> As of 5/31/19 this story is complete. I don’t know if I will be returning to add more chapters at a later date. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is a work of fan fiction. I don’t own the characters herein and no copyright infringement is intended. Unbeta’d. All mistakes are my own.


End file.
